


Vessel

by Amielleon



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Cutthroat Protagonist, Demonic Possession, F/M, Implied Sexual Assault, Sad Children, Scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amielleon/pseuds/Amielleon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>or, The Tragedy of Morgan (A Tale in Two Acts)</i>. (Robin/Inigo.) This is the future that Morgan comes from: the stage for a forgotten tale of heroism, brilliance, and one last betrayal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vessel

**Author's Note:**

> Grima was not given a definite gender in the Japanese version, and may very well not have one. I have gone with Robin's gender for the sake of pronouns and for the ease of reading along with the mental image of fem!Robin in your head.
> 
> Also, I have used some information from the Future Past DLCs, but since this is obviously not the same universe, some important details are different from all known universes. Blame the butterfly effect.

* * *

**Act I**

* * *

She answered Morgan's request for an audience in the evening, after she had finished killing the child of Naga and her friends. With Lucina dead, all immediate problems were out of the way, and Grima could focus on the minutia necessary for holding onto her place in the world.

The first being this one.

Bowing her blue-haired head, Morgan entered, flanked by a retinue of Risen. “Master Grima.”

“Well? Do you have him?”

“Yes. Alive and well, as you asked.”

Morgan gestured for the Risen to bring their captive forth. Bound at the wrists and ankles, stripped of his armor, his silver sweat-soaked hair sticking to his cheek, Inigo was set onto the floor in a kneeling position. Refusing humiliation, he looked Grima in the eye and said hoarsely, “I'll never betray them.”

“Oh, you won't have to. Your princess is dead.” Then, in the beat of Inigo's stunned silence, she asked Morgan dryly, “Did you leave him ungagged for a reason?”

“I was afraid he might choke, Master. You said to take no chances with his life.”

“Fine. A job well done, Morgan. You may leave.”

She saw hesitation in Morgan's eyes before she bowed and left.

 _What,_ Grima wondered in annoyance, _is praise no longer enough? Is she expecting a reward?_ Human servants were fickle like that—she'd already culled several of her Grimleal whose loyalty was doubtful after they hadn't gotten quite so much land or riches or power as they wanted. Validar, for one. Meanwhile Morgan had been perfect in her loyalty and uniquely useful in her talents. Grima would rather keep her around if she could.

But Morgan was also the last surviving heir to Naga. Therefore her loyalties were a... sensitive matter.

Grima wondered if the Falchion itself—concealed in the folds of her robe—was calling to Morgan, now that its old master was dead.

Someday her threat would eclipse her talents and she would have to kill her. But not yet. Grima sighed and waved her hand about to summon a pair of Risen. “Go find some flowers somewhere and bring them to Morgan,” she told them curtly, then warped them away to a distant plain with a flick of the wrist.

Then she looked down at her prisoner.

His blood's presence was not powerful. Robin's blood was such a pure beacon that Grima had felt it in slumber from the center of the world. Inigo's could hardly even be felt halfway across the room, and then only when she searched him for it. Well, that was to be expected, she thought with annoyance. His father—whose blood was also weak, but twice as strong at least—would've suited her better, but Risen were so terrible at taking prisoners. (Another reason to let Morgan live for the time being.) No, it was good fortune to have a male fellblood before her at all. In the worst case, if the children born of her own vessel would not do, they had some time to try him with Aversa, and she felt fairly confident that somewhere among the grandchildren, at least one would be suitable.

Inigo gazed back. His defiant look was beginning to annoy her. She slowly walked up to him as he kept his measured gaze. Then, without warning, she kicked him in the shoulder and sent him toppling over to one side. His head made a satisfying sound against the stone floor and he gave a gasp. “Oh, did that hurt?” 

For a moment Inigo's eyes went vague, and Grima had the presence to regret being rough with him. It would be much more difficult to secure a new vessel if he died. At times—given how hard it was to kill them when you wanted to—Grima forgot how delicate these creatures could be. 

Fortunately, he was still breathing, and in moments he'd collected himself enough to struggle against his binds, to no effect. Morgan was always so good at knots.

“Do you know why you're here?” Grima said. Inigo ceased his struggling, but gave no response, simply watching her warily. No matter, it was rhetorical. “It's because you humans are pathetic creatures.”

Grima held one hand before her, letting her brand face him. As she clenched and unclenched her hand, her leathery skin rippled and her blue veins moved.

“Do you know how long I've had in this vessel?” Inigo's eyes moved from her hand to her face. “Merely ten years! A blink of an eye, and already, it is falling apart.” Grima sighed and crossed her hands behind her back, where they would not embarrass her. “But no matter. What you lack in longevity, you make up for in numbers. I learned that long ago,”—a bitter smile crossed her face at the memory of the first war—“but now, all will be to my advantage.”

Inigo had gone still. Grima looked upon his face and saw—determination lingering, yes, but growing fear began to make its way into his eyes. And he looked like he was trying not to cry. Much better.

“I see you require no more explanation. Good.”

* * *

A few weeks later, after the capital had been fully secured, Grima told her generals, “I'm leaving for three days.” Morgan nodded earnestly; Aversa less so. 

Grima did not feel confident leaving the castle in their hands, but there was a sword that needed hiding. And besides, their captive had already served his purpose, though she kept that a secret to herself. Though the child had barely begun, she knew already—through some intuition born of her fully awakened powers—that it would do as her new vessel. 

So let them free the captive. He wouldn't last long in the wild. If they showed their true colors in her absence over this truly trivial matter, it would save her precious time and energy spent determining their loyalty in the future.

As she took off into the air, she pondered instead what her new vessel would be like. This time, it ought to be raised properly in the palace, carefully prepared for its role—unlike Robin, who still surfaced from time to time to fight her. In a way, Grima looked forward to getting a new vessel. This one was powerful but defective. The new one would have thinner blood, but a willing mind would make up the difference and more. This new one—

Ah, yes, it ought to have a name. Grima was bad with human names. Naming it a dragon name seemed ill luck; she was looking for a vessel, not a successor. 

Perhaps _Morgan_ would do. To her understanding the humans named each other the same thing from time to time, and it was a name that didn't disagree with Grima. It meant _morning_. It was still the dawn of her reign.

And Falchion would be buried deep within Origin Peak: an ocean away from the last humans with ships burnt and mounts slaughtered.

* * *

Inigo woke to the sound of someone fumbling with keys. His mouth was dry and his entire body was sore, his muscles exhausted and torn and never given enough food to recover. But—beyond the knowledge that their resistance had failed, the world was Grima's, and his body had been among the spoils—his mind was still sharp enough to notice that it did not sound like the person at his door was Grima.

He didn't dare hope that he was being freed. He'd had enough of his hopes crushed recently. Reflexively, he pressed his knees together.

The door opened, and he saw, illuminated by the torchlight in the hall, long white hair framing a dark oval face. It took a few moments for him to recognize her as General Aversa, whom their resistance had briefly fought (and fled from) a little over a year ago. 

He wondered what she wanted. In some particularly insensible part of his mind that still didn't believe that his friends were dead and he was a prisoner, Inigo thought to himself that Owain would probably double over with laughter if he told him how many women were coming after him lately.

“Can you walk?” Aversa whispered.

Her secretive tone made him alert at once. But his hope was short-lived, drowned out by pessimistic voices that had lately taken over his thoughts. Was he being freed? ... Or was she just checking to see if he had enough energy and will to make an escape so she could break his legs just in case?

Before he gave any response, she started work at his handcuffs, cycling through each key on the ring until one finally clicked and the cuffs opened. “If you can't, you won't last long anyway,” she reasoned out loud. She opened the cuffs at his ankles with the same key, then handed him the sheathed sword from her side. It was only then that Inigo committed to the idea that he was, in fact, being freed.

He only managed to hoarsely say, “Why are you...”

“None of your business,” she said curtly. “Now go. Help is waiting for you in the stables.” 

Inigo tentatively stood up, leaning against the wall and the sword for support. Blood rushed away from his head, but in a moment the faintness passed, and the sword hilt felt familiar in his hand, and—he didn't know what it was _exactly_ , but he laughed and cried at little at the same time.

Aversa gave him a disgusted look and said, “Your dungeon madness is so becoming. If you'll excuse me, I need to go make other preparations.”

“I'll be fine,” he said as she left. He wasn't sure she cared, but she cared enough to save his life, and that was enough to make him feel deeply grateful. He strapped the sheath around his waist, unsheathed the sword, and gave a few practice swings. The hilt felt rough in his hand, but his aching arms still remembered the movements. 

Adrenaline pumped through him as he peered beyond the door into the empty hallway. He was certain there would be guards, but he was not stopped on his way through the hall, or up the stairs, or in the corridor of the palace all the way to the main doors. It was enough to make him suspicious, holding his sword at the ready as he pushed open the door. 

But there was nothing beyond but darkness and rain. Inigo looked about for the stables and ran across to them, thinking—even while fearing a Risen ambush—how wonderful the mud felt against his feet. 

In the stable, he found a bundle set out on the floor. He unwrapped it and found a clean set of clothes his size alongside a flask of oil and an herb he recognized upon inspection as olivi grass. The basic ingredients necessary for a waterproofing hex. Thoughtful, but he hadn't the time and energy to cast a hex of that intricacy at the moment. He wished Aversa had cast it ahead of time.

Inigo began to change and was thinking about how it was like his parents were pitching in to help him—the herb his mother was named after and the sorcery his father had taught him—when a scrap of paper fell out as he was putting on the shirt.

He picked it up and squinted at the words, making out the neat print by the faint magic light from the gates.

_Take my pegasus and go._

He hesitated, but he hadn't the stamina, supplies, or knowledge to go looking for her. Inigo silently thanked Aversa. He saddled the pegasus—which did not protest his direction, despite his gender; he thought it was a surprisingly calm mount for such a fierce woman—and took off into the sky, clinging to the reins.

As he flew, he started to laugh again, and tipped his head back to wet his mouth with the rain. Maybe there was hope after all.

* * *

Grima returned to find the palace at Ylisstol in tatters, and Morgan sprawled out next to Risen corpses with burns on her robes and cheek. Paralyzing sadness leaked over from the girl's mother and for a moment she stopped walking. Then she overcame the vessel and walked forth. Grima was just disappointed to lose such an able assistant.

But as she approached the body, Morgan stirred. 

“What happened?” Grima said.

“Aversa,” she moaned. “She... she betrayed you, Master Grima.... Something... revenge for Validar.... She fled with the prisoner... I tried to stop her....”

“I see. Let's have you healed, and perhaps you can recall where she's gone.”

“Thank you,” Morgan murmured as Grima summoned a pair of Risen clerics. “Thank you for thinking of me, mother.”

* * *

**Act II**

* * *

“We found it!” someone shouted. 

Inigo made his way over to the other side of the mountain with his band close by his heels. “You're sure?” he yelled back.

“Yeah!” returned Nowi's high-pitched voice. “We really found it!”

They picked their way across the rocky trail. Years of finding cryptic notes in his childhood haunts—years of searching, planning, struggling to find survivors—now, finally, this: the last divine dragon woken from the tree where she had hidden through the devastation, and the divine blade discovered through her power.

They came upon the excavating group glowing with pride. One of them walked forth and presented to him—held carefully in both hands—Falchion, still polished and sharp beneath a thin coating of dirt.

* * *

“When I'm in charge,” Morgan said with his arms crossed, “I'll keep all the cool bugs I want.”

His 'aunt' gave him an exasperated look and said, once again, “Sure! If you have time for them. But for now, you're keeping _books_ in your bookcase.”

“I've already memorized them,” he shot back sulkily. She knew it was probably true—she and her mother both always had a good memory for anything they had read, too. “But my bugs are new and really interesting and I'm learning all sorts of weird defense strategies from them. So why can't I keep my bugs?”

“Because Master Grima will be unhappy with you,” she said, finally done arguing with him. It was an ultimatum that always worked, and Morgan closed his sulky mouth and began to pick out the specimens in his collection to set free.

“Do you think she'll be unhappy with me if I set them free in the larder,” he muttered.

“I think she'll make you eat them alongside supper,” she replied cheerfully.

“Ugh. _You're_ the cook, auntie. Whatever, fine.” He opened the window and began to usher them out of their jars. The elder Morgan watched with a patient smile, thinking to herself the unspeakable: that when he would be 'in charge', his mind would no longer be his.

She wasn't sure the boy understood. He had been told that he would become Grima's new vessel, and that it was an honor, and so on and so on, but he had never known Robin for who she had been. Perhaps he didn't know he would lose himself. 

Or—perhaps he knew, and was smart enough to keep quiet about it? Given the way Grima pampered the boy, it was a distant hope.

Morgan helped him along by slotting the books back onto their shelves in alphabetical order, eliciting a whine of, “Let me do it _myself_ , you're going to mess up the order!”

Just as she was about to relent, she picked up a book flipped its cover open for its title—

“Where did you get this?” she hissed in a whisper.

He shrunk back as if she had shouted at him. “I found it,” he said quietly, innocently.

That much she didn't doubt—no one would've _handed_ such a book to him. “You know you can't have a book like this.”

He hung his head, clearly ashamed, but still mumbling resentfully, “I just wanted to know.” He tilted his head toward the still-open window, which provided a view of the ruins of the city. They could barely see the skeleton of a forest fading back into the dusty sky. “You know that book on basic strategy? In the section about terrain advantages there were these sketches of forests except the trees had leaves. And when I thought about it, it didn't really make sense to use forests as cover from aerial scouting, unless they all used to be like that, so... I just wanted to know what's different so I know what advice not to take, that's all.”

She studied his face carefully, fingering the spine of the history book in her hand. He had constructed the most acceptable excuse, but it was clear he had been indulging his natural teenage curiosity. Privately, Morgan was pleased. But she couldn't let him know that.

“I am going to burn it and you are going to watch,” she said quietly, “because you know that would only be the start of what Master Grima would do.”

He did not complain when she summoned a flame in one palm and burned it before him, though his dark eyes looked on sadly. And in her heart she was sad as well—one more remnant of the civilization past, destroyed by her very hand.

But she had done worse.

“Now finish cleaning up your books,” she said cheerfully, “or else? Bugs for supper!”

* * *

That night they had an acceptable supper of stew made from potatoes, beets, and a stringy old rabbit. Grima grouched that it could have used pepper, but Morgan reminded her that crops took time to grow, and they had already eaten all of the pepper planted in the gardens.

“If only farmers weren't so insufferable,” Grima grumbled. Morgan fought back a smile. Sometime in the last few years, she had developed a keen appreciation for irony.

After eating, Grima entertained the younger Morgan with a few rounds of the war game Robin had invented. Sometimes, as she did tonight, Morgan watched these games, wondering if Grima had all the cognitive powers of her true mother. If she did, then Morgan knew she wouldn't be able to get away with anything.

She suspected that Robin was able to close off her mind. If so, then things could get much worse once Grima took Morgan's body. From a single glance, it was clear that the boy—however rebellious—adored his 'mother'.

(Morgan loved her mother too.)

“Another of your victories,” Grima said, inspecting the board. “Very good.” Morgan beamed proudly. “Now—go and rest.”

“All right. Good night, Mother.” He kissed her on the cheek as he left, ever the perfect child. The other Morgan was fairly certain that he would be reading under the covers by his magic until the sun came up.

Grima remained at the table, observing their game as if she would find something new on the board. When the boy had left, Grima called, “Morgan.”

“Yes?” she replied.

“Fetch the gemstones from the strongholds.”

Morgan forced her throat not to go tight as she answered, “Yes, Master Grima. I'll fetch them as quickly as I can.”

* * *

Killing Morgan had always been an option.

As she headed for her wyvern in the stables, Morgan pulled her hood over her head as her heart pounded with the weight of the choices before her. She could wait. Play along. Strike when a better opportunity presented itself. But she had done that for years. In the beginning she had been active, always searching for opportunities, things that could have been done. But then nothing had changed and she had grown weary and decided to wait, wait, wait. Now the circumstances had only grown worse.

It would have been easier if she had any sign from Inigo in the past sixteen years that he was doing something, or had received her notes, or had even survived after his escape at all. Either he was dead, or he hadn't yet figured out the identity of his benefactor, or he was doing a terribly good job of laying low. 

She hoped it was the last one. Ever since Validar's execution, the information network had all but fallen apart. But if so, Inigo's victory was a double-edged sword. Now, with Grima about to enter a new 'vessel', Morgan had no means to contact him before the deed would be done.

Killing the boy had always been an option. Risking her own life to hold Grima off for another ten or so years. Gambling on the even longer run, in hopes that Grima's body would age and betray her, and she would die uneventfully someday under the weight of her own bones.

But it was an option that Morgan didn't want to take. The risk seemed too great: she didn't know if anyone else was left to oppose the dark dragon. And besides—turning on her former friends had been horrible enough. For the last fifteen years, she had helped raise Morgan as if he were her own.

But he would exist no longer if Grima took him over. She knew that.

Morgan greeted her wyvern with a pat on the snout and a low, “Hey, boy.” Patches huffed and pressed his nose against her, as if it'd been so long that he had forgotten what she smelled like. At times, Morgan thought that he was her only real friend left—the only one not tangled in her web of plans and lies. 

She saddled Patches, mounted him, and took off into the sky. There was once a time when Grima insisted upon an armed escort for all of her trips, but those days had long passed. Now Grima assumed there was no one left to challenge her.

That made Grima vulnerable, Morgan thought. Perhaps she could play upon that assumption. Maybe...

She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice her attackers until an arrow arced by, narrowly missing a wing. Patches screeched and changed course as Morgan gripped the reins and guided him into a descent. She peered down, squinting her eyes against the wind, looking for the archers. There—moonlight glinted off the weapon of one of them, by the ruins.

She pulled a throwing spear from where she had bound a small supply to Patches's side. She was always prepared for anything. Hurtling it down at where she believed the archer to be—a shot taken carelessly, aimed to startle and distract—she steered Patches into a descent into the dead brush beyond the ruins.

“Lie down,” she whispered to him under her breath. Obediently, he laid down and lowered his wings, barely covered by the brush. That would have to do. The cover of night could do the rest.

She untied the rest of the spears and held onto them as she approached the ruins in a crouch, dead branches scratching at her face. She heard them calling to each other—“Over there!” “In the bushes!” Distinctly human voices. Strange. She lowered her spear slightly as she squinted for a better look. By their build and gait, some of them looked to be in their mid-thirties, as she was. Others were much younger, young enough to be her children. Part of her was amazed that there were so many people born after Grima's ascension. She had thought her race to be on the verge of extinction, but for the few left as slaves to the dark dragon.

But here they were: wild people, people with harsh voices and clothes made of fur, like strange travelers from the earliest of days.

And they were approaching her hiding place, forcing an end to her reverie.

“How'd you figure a wyvern up and disappeared like that?” one of them wondered aloud.

“Maybe it died when it hit the ground?”

So they thought she was a Risen, and had disintegrated upon her death. Perhaps she wouldn't have to decide right away whether to kill them or start talking.

“It came from the castle,” a clear voice insisted. Her eyes darted to the light-haired man who appeared from beyond a corner. She could not see him clearly in the dark, but he moved with a distinct grace she recognized from two decades ago. “Their Risen scouts go in groups of at least two. This one was alone. It could be her. Keep looking.”

Inigo. It was almost too good a coincidence to be true.

She reminded herself: it had been years, and she didn't know what he planned to do with her. Nor could he be sure of her intentions. On the other hand, if she started killing his men, it was unlikely that he would see her as anything other than an enemy.

So, cautiously, with the spear still in her hand, she called, “Inigo!”

They all turned to look at where she slowly rose from the brush. “Inigo. Are you looking for me?”

An easy smile spread over his face as he called, “Morgan! Just the one I wanted to see.”

As if he hadn't last spoken to her sixteen years ago bound by knots of her making.

“Good evening,” she replied cheerfully, keeping up whatever pretense he was aiming for. “Kind of a rough welcome, don't you think?”

“Well, we had a few ideas for how to get your attention. Maybe we should've tried shouting your name after all?” Inigo laughed and waved the archers down. “Let us talk,” he told them. He was the first to sheathe his sword.

* * *

“I'm glad to finally hear from you.”

“I didn't know how to communicate to you. You know, without giving you away. So I just followed your leads. Laid low. We found Nah's mother. She's a fully awakened Voice now. She spoke to Tiki, and she told us where to look for....”

Inigo suddenly lapsed into silence. Morgan wished again that it weren't so dark.

“You've been helping us,” he said finally, “but I still can't figure you out.”

She laughed. “What? What do you mean? I'm on your side. It's as simple as that.”

“I don't mean to say you're our enemy right now. But....” He trailed off as if he didn't know how to say it without making it sound like an accusation.

“You mean in the past.” Morgan lapsed into a moment of silence, bringing to mind the events of the day she led the advance against Inigo and three others, and trying to put her reasons into words. “I didn't want to. But I also knew that Grima would kill Lucina at the capital. If I defied Grima to save you”—and she kept it secret that perhaps she couldn't have, perhaps when she was young she still couldn't bear to harm her mother's form—“the only difference it would have made is that I would have died too.”

“Or we might have all lived,” Inigo said softly.

Morgan shook her head, though she knew he could not see it. “Grima killed everyone in Lucina's army without so much as a scratch. The best we could have done was run. And if we'd done that... then we'd all be on the outside. We wouldn't have the chance we have now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because you and I lived, we have all the ingredients necessary to send Grima back to sleep.”

“What?” Inigo stopped walking for a moment. Morgan wished she could have seen the confusion on his face. “I'm not sure I follow. Actually, I'm not sure why you even thought I would survive.”

“Well, I had orders to take you back alive. I was pretty sure I could free you—and I did.”

“Wasn't that Aversa?”

“Aversa was in favor of just killing you,” Morgan said. “She only wanted revenge on Grima. I persuaded her to let you go instead. After she let you loose, I gave you her pegasus, because I knew that Grima must have hidden Falchion somewhere you can't just walk to.”

“Yeah, I thought about that weird note and the matching handwriting but... I never saw you during my escape, so I wasn't sure what you were trying to do.”

“I was counting on you not knowing until awhile later,” she said. “In case Grima caught up with you.”

“Right. So, does Aversa still want to kill me?”

“Aversa's dead.” 

“What?”

“I killed her to cover your escape, and my part in it.” At his stunned silence, she said, “I know it's terrible. But I'd killed our friends, too.”

Until then she hadn't said it so bluntly. Or so presumptuously. _Our friends_ , as if she still had a claim to their friendship.

She forced herself to continue. “Now you and I have survived to fight against better odds. That is”—she turned to face him, her right eye catching in the moonlight—“you found Falchion, didn't you.”

“You're scary, Morgan.”

“And you know I'm the only one who can wield it. That's why you came looking for me. Even though you don't know if you can trust me. Because either way, I'm your only hope.”

“I guess you can put it like that.”

“... Unless you planned to capture me and sire a doubtlessly loyal hero?”

“Why would you even ask that?” Inigo sounded so honestly hurt—still nakedly earnest out of old habit. The years could teach him, but they could not change him. 

And evidently there were some pains he still hadn't shaken. “I'm sorry,” Morgan said. “Of course you didn't.” After a moment of silence, she added, “You should know that Grima means to move into your son's body soon.”

After a pause, Inigo's quiet reply was, “I'd imagined it to be a girl for the longest time.” Morgan didn't ask why.

“She sent me to bring the gemstones back to the palace. She could proceed with the ritual as soon as I return with them.”

“What's your plan?”

Not _do you have a plan_ , but _what's your plan_. Morgan thought that she might have said too much tonight. She didn't care as much as she should have. It felt liberating.

It was nice talking to a human being for once, as something sort of like equals.

“We perform the Awakening and put Grima to sleep. Then... well... everything after that is easier.” Not easy. But easier.

“Sounds too simple, coming from you.”

It was. Morgan added, “We'll need to do something about... the other vessel. Or Grima could move at the worst moment. You know what happened to my father.”

“Do something about the other vessel,” Inigo repeated. “You aren't saying we should kill my son, are you?”

“I raised him,” Morgan said defensively. “I don't _want_ to kill him. What do you propose?”

“A plan with less killing,” Inigo said—half-joking, half-weary. “Honestly, Morgan. Even if your heart's in the right place, I can't agree with your plans. I guess it's just—too much like what Grima would do.”

Morgan swallowed something thick. That was, in the end, who she had learned strategy from. Through years and years of practical experience. Not her mother, whom she had lost shortly after her first memories, and spoke to her only through her old writings.

“Listen, Morgan. I'm telling you this because I trust you. Not for any reason I can explain, but... just instinct. All right?”

“All right,” she said. She'd take it for any reason in the world. After all, she had a feeling she didn't deserve it by now.

“We had another plan. In case you wouldn't wield Falchion. Tiki said she could send us back in time using just the Emblem and four of the gemstones, and we could stop these events from ever happening. So—I was thinking you could send him away.”

“Why wouldn't that be your first plan for saving the world? It sounds better in every way.”

Inigo looked down at his feet and dragged them slightly as he walked, muttering, “Because it's not actually time travel, it's more like—going to another world. And we'd be abandoning this one, and everyone in it. I... didn't want to do that until we'd tried everything.”

“Everything. Like telling the enemy strategist everything you had planned.”

“Yeah.”

“On instinct.”

“I'm a dumb hero, after all. I get by.”

Morgan smiled and said, “I don't know how you do it.” Morgan stopped and looked at him until he stopped walking and looked back at her. “It can be done. I can send him to another world and put Grima to sleep. But I'll need you to stay away.”

“What? Why?”

“Someone has to put everything back together.” She gestured with her chin to where the other people were waiting, somewhere in the ruins. “They need their hero.”

“You think I won't make it through?”

“No—I think you _might_ not make it through, and that it's not worth the risk. I'm an experienced fighter myself, Inigo. If I have Falchion, that'll be enough. No one else needs to risk their lives.”

From the set of Inigo's shoulders, she could tell that he still didn't like it.

“It's a plan with less death,” she reminded him cheerfully. “You won't help anyone by taking needless risks.”

“I know,” Inigo relented. He looked away at the ruins, seeming to think for a few moments more before he said, “I'd like you to fit just one thing into your plan.”

“What is it?”

“Before you send him away... can I see my son?”

* * *

“Morgan, are you awake?”

The boy had actually gone to sleep for once. His book was on his nightstand with a ribbon poking out from its pages. He roused as his aunt called out to him and groggily lifted his head from his pillow. “What is it?” he mumbled.

“There are a few things we need to do tonight.”

His aunt was serious and whispering. That was never a good sign.

“Okay?” he said.

She shushed him. “Keep your voice down. Now come on, get up. Quietly.”

As he slowly dragged himself out of bed, his aunt looked on with impatience. After he'd thrown on his cloak and put on his shoes, she held onto him by the forearm like she always used to whenever she insisted that he go with her. So he did—beginning to feel afraid—as she opened the door and led him through the halls, down the stairs, and into the room by the front gates that they used as a closet.

A light-haired man was pacing there. He stopped as they appeared, looked at Morgan, and gave him a broad smile. “Hey, Morgan.”

Morgan looked at his aunt. “Who's he?”

His aunt and the man looked at each other, as if they were daring each other to answer. “Your father,” his aunt answered at last. “He wanted to see you.”

“The name's Inigo,” he added helpfully. “It's nice to meet you.”

“Hello,” Morgan replied, trailing off because he wasn't sure how to address him. 

His aunt didn't seem to mind, squeezing his forearm as she said to Inigo, “You've found everything you needed?”

He nodded. “And here's the sword.” He held out a beautiful sword to her, old in its design, yet sharp and without wear as if new from the forge.

She took it. “Good. Thank you. Now go, quickly.”

Inigo's eyes lingered on him for a moment. Morgan self-consciously ran his fingers through his bed-head. Inigo only said, “Good luck,” before brushing past them and silently easing the main doors open.

Morgan noticed that the usual Risen guards weren't there. Between that, and sneaking around at midnight, and this sudden meeting with this weird human who was apparently his father, the surreal wrongness of everything was really starting to upset him.

“Auntie, what's going on?” he murmured.

“I need to ask you something,” she said quietly as she began to lead him down another hall. “Do you really want to become Grima's vessel?”

“Yes? Of course.”

“I'm not asking for Grima,” she said, opening the doors to the throne room. “I'm asking for you.”

“What?”

She looked him in the eye and said, “You need to know. Becoming Grima's vessel means losing control of your body. It means giving way to its soul and doing whatever Grima pleases. You will gain tremendous power, but you won't be the one using it.”

“Um... o-okay? What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“The truth... I, I guess both sides sound fine right now?”

“Never mind,” she said. “You don't have to tell me. You don't have to trust me. You can decide for yourself.” She continued down the throne room, pulling him along by the arm. 

Although his aunt had never hurt him before, she had always made it clear what lines were not to be crossed—and now she wanted him to cross all of them? She wasn't acting like herself. He didn't know what to expect from her. And he didn't know what she wanted with him or what she would do to him now.

She took him into the room beyond the throne room where he wasn't supposed to go, opened a magic lock in a false wall he'd never seen, and led him down into a chamber he never knew existed. “Aunt Morgan,” he dared to plead, “what's going on?”

“Give me one moment,” she said. “And watch.”

She took a shield—he knew from his studies that it was the Fire Emblem—out from a case and laid it on the floor. Fumbling around in her cloak, she withdrew five round orbs and slotted each into it. Then she took out the sword that the man had given to her, held it before her face, and began to chant at length. 

“Hear me, Tiki! I bear proof of our sacred covenant! In the name of the exalted blood, I ask for the divine dragon's power! Baptize me in fire, that I may become your true daughter!”

She gasped and her body began to shine with light. He shrank back closer to the door.

“Awakener,” echoed a voice from somewhere unidentifiable above, “your heart has been tested and deemed worthy. Cleansed in my fire, your desire has proven to burn the stronger. I shall now imbue your blade with my power.”

“Thank you.” Morgan's aunt turned to him. “Now tell her. Tell the gods what you want. And that is what you shall receive.”

“I... I don't know, I don't know what's going on....”

“I'm giving you a chance at your own life,” she said.

“I don't know what you're saying,” he said, beginning to cry. “I don't know what... please, can I just go back to sleep?”

His aunt came up to him, wrapped her arms about him, and held him tight. “I'm sorry. Some things are too hard to explain.” He squeezed her tight and wept into her chest. “I'm sorry for teaching you the wrong things all these years. I'm sorry for lying to you over and over. But right now I'm trying to save your life. Will you let me?”

Silently, without lifting his head, without understanding, he trusted her. And nodded.

“How touching.”

His mother, hands folded behind her back, approached them from the other end of the chamber. His aunt let go of him, looked to her, then Morgan. His aunt moved her arm—and his world went black.

* * *

“Take him away, Tiki,” Morgan screamed, gesturing to the boy on the floor. “Take him, now!”

Grima looked at her son, knocked unconscious by Falchion's hilt, and said, “At least you learned from your father's mistakes. And yet it will amount to nothing.”

“I've let you live for too many years. You're finished now!”

“Hahaha! I would say the same. I always knew Naga would get the better of you. I should have killed you sooner.”

Grima held out her arms and the ground shook, power coiling about her and wisping into the form of a dragon in the too-small chamber. A high-pitched sound whirred from behind Morgan, and the boy disappeared. Grima's annoyance only fueled her power. She hurtled a blast of dark energy at Morgan, who tried in vain to block the brunt of the attack with her sword.

When the blast let up, she ran forth bleeding and burnt with the glowing Falchion in one hand, swinging it into her body with a cry. 

Pain coursed through Grima's awareness, and for a moment she was afraid. Afraid because when she stared down this _girl_ who had been her servant for so many years, at the end of decades without fear, it had taken the edge off of her fear of the gems, the sword, and the descendants. And now they were all here, formed into her only weakness.

“You would turn against your mother, Morgan?” she said, stalling as she formed another attack. “Traitor! You turned against your friends. You turned against your country. And now you would turn against me?”

This damned vessel! Robin fought her from within, letting the attack dissipate. She froze their muscles and brought these words to their lips: “Do it... Morgan... Hurry....”

Morgan shook the tears from her eyes and cried, “You are not my mother anymore!”

She charged in with the sword once more.

* * *

_(epilogue)_

* * *

“Tracy, Travers, Trent, Trevor, Trey, Tristan... I like Tristan... Troy, Tucker...”

“I still like Morgan best,” Robin said, staring at her toes past her belly.

“Well,” Inigo said, “all right. My throat's getting sore anyway.” He closed the book and laid it on the floor beside his chair. Robin wiggled her toes, and Inigo wrapped a hand around one foot. “Your feet are freezing. You sure you don't want me to get your socks?”

“No, they itch.”

Inigo daintly picked up the ends of the blanket she was sitting on and draped them over her feet. “So I guess we're naming him Morgan?”

“Yes. I don't think it'll be confusing since Morgan's leaving us soon.”

Inigo laughed and murmured, “I just thought it might be a little... weird.”

“What's weird?” Robin said with a frown. “It's my favorite name. I've always wanted to name my child Morgan.” Not that she could remember, but she felt like she had. “If I ever find another name I like as much, I'll let you know.”

Inigo gave a deep sigh. “We're almost through the alphabet....”

“Oh,” Robin said remorselessly. “Too bad.” As if in revenge, Inigo began to stroke the soles of her feet through the blankets. She squirmed and laughed, “Stop that!”

Inigo climbed onto the bed next to her and laid his head against hers, and his hand on her stomach. Robin felt the baby kicking. They looked at each other and smiled knowingly.

Robin leaned against her husband and let her mind wander. Chrom had lent them such a nice house: some traitor's villa in the heart of Ylisstol. After she'd recovered from bearing their child, they would be back on the road again, seeing the world and performing here and there. Although this time, Morgan would not be there—or at least, not the one who'd bring her new books for souvenirs and sing along to Inigo's dancing. No, their new Morgan would have a few years of crying to overcome.

It was a strange to raise a teenager first. One who didn't even remember himself from before they met.

“Do you ever wonder where Morgan came from?” Robin said. “Older Morgan.”

Inigo took her right hand and rubbed his thumb over the pale, unmarked skin on the back of her hand. “Sometimes.”

“Do you think maybe it's not over yet?” She stared at her hand as well. “That there's some way it can still go wrong? And it'd take the time-traveling children of time-traveling children to fix all our messes?”

“Relax,” Inigo said. “You're thinking too hard.” Robin was privately glad he didn't add in _as usual_ , though he must have thought it.

“Well, what do you think?”

“To be honest? Right after your—sacrifice, when I was thinking about what I could've done to stop you, I kind of... wondered if Morgan came from a world where I had.”

“And Grima awoke again?” Robin put her other hand over Inigo's. “That won't happen here. Not any more.”

Inigo kissed her by the ear. “I missed you so much. We were lucky.”

* * *

Morgan stared intently into Lucina's eyes.

“Is something the matter?”

“You know, it's kind of crazy,” Morgan said, “but sometimes I get this weird hunch we're related.”

Only being patient, Lucina said, “I wonder why.”

* * *

_Finis_

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [tattedmariposa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tattedmariposa/) for betaing, and “[The Right-Hand Path](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9437966/1/The-Right-Hand-Path)” by Mark of the Asphodel for a critical piece of inspiration.
> 
> Disjointed babbly notes can be found [here](http://amielleon.dreamwidth.org/221117.html).


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